


Drunk Mycroft, version 1

by Marmosette



Series: Drunk Mycroft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft hosted a party on the roof of one of his London flats. When the last guest leaves, this is what happens when drink has been taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk Mycroft, version 1

“ ‘I have told him,’ I said, ‘and he prefers not to.’” Mycroft smiled neatly into the bright burst of laughter that greeted the end of his anecdote. John Watson was giggling a bit, but mostly supporting a very drunk MP who had an arm around his shoulder.

“Ohh, Holmes, next time, I bring my brother. He’s got more sass than a bardenrake!”

“Pardon?” John said, leaning closer.

“Hee! Doctor Watson, have you seen my towel?”

Mycroft beamed at them, then turned away, raising his hand at someone across the roof. “Excuse me,” he said to John and the MP with a slight bow, backing away.

Greg Lestrade looked up from his glass as Mycroft’s feet invaded his field of vision. “Oh, who goosed you now?” Greg sighed, tipping his head back and looking up with a tired smile.

Mycroft frowned at him, holding out his hand and flapping his fingers into his palm. “I’ve done no such thing.”

Greg set his glass down on the bench beside him and leaned forward, pushing himself carefully onto his feet. “I’ve met everyone, Mycroft. You don’t need to... oh.” Greg looked around the desserted rooftop. “All of them?”

“I just sent a Labour MP down into a cab with John Watson. My brother will not be pleased.” Mycroft caught hold of Greg’s hands, turning him to face him. “Now, Inspector.”

“Yes. Yes.” Greg took a deep breath, focussing on his feet and lifting his head to meet Mycroft’s eyes. Which were not on him. He’d pulled a slim remote from his pocket and was aiming it over Greg’s shoulder at the sound system. Greg blinked and glanced back over his shoulder, bleary. “What?”

Mycroft shook his head slowly, dropping the remote back into his pocket and picking up Greg’s hand again, draping Greg’s arms up over his shoulders and stepping in closer, sliding their feet together.

“Ohh, nice,” Greg hummed, hearing the warmth of the soft music. “This is new.”

“The thought, I assure you, is old.”

Greg hummed a little, settling his head under Mycroft’s chin. _“...Night breezes seem to whisper, ‘I love you...’”_

“Oh, Gregory, please stop.”

“I thought you liked my singing.”

“I do.” Mycroft shifted his arms around Greg’s shoulders. “If you continue, you’ll have to hold me up.”

Greg smiled with half of his face, too relaxed to bother with the rest. He breathed in the soft, warm scent of Mycroft - a little soap, a little cologne, a little champagne, a bit of musk. 

“This is nice.”

Mycroft drew a deep breath, shifting his feet slowly around Greg’s. “Mmm.”

“Why don’t we ever dance, Mycroft? Do you know why we never dance?”

“We can’t work out which of us should lead.”

“I should. I’m older.”

“I’m taller.”

“Yeah, but I could kick your arse.”

“No. You couldn’t. I’d squash you like a bug.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No. I never said that. I’d send someone round to squash you like a bug. I have people for that.” His words were soft across the top of Greg’s hair.

“What a load of shite you talk.”

“I am in fact very extremely good at it.”

“Yeah, you are. You really, really are.”

Mycroft shifted, turning them slightly. Greg grinned again, against his neck, following Mycroft’s lead. “I didn’t think you’d know The Beautiful South,” Greg said suddenly.

“What?” Mycroft frowned, pulling back slightly.

“The band.” Greg tipped his head in the direction of the speakers.

“Oh.” Mycroft settled his chin on Greg’s head again. “No, you’re right. Someone put this together.”

“Who? What for?”

“I’ve no idea. I came across a list that matched my needs.”

“Where?”

“I am not an investigation.”

“I’ll investigate you in a minute. This list.”

“If I tell you all my secrets, you’ll become bored. I’ll lose my mystery.”

Greg snorted, then giggled, and was soon crying with laughter, clutching Mycroft’s shoulders to hold himself up. Mycroft supported him, frowning at the top of his head. “I believe you are drunk, Lestrade.”

Greg wiped his eyes on Mycroft’s shirt, wheezing and coughing a little as he tried to catch his breath. “You. Mystery.” And he was off again.

Mycroft sighed, turning his attention to the sky above them as Greg dangled against his chest, sobbing with laughter. “Am I so plain, to you?” he asked after a moment.

Greg pulled back sharply and looked at him, his laughter wilting. “What, you mean... looking?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “No, I mean...simple. Obvious.”

Another laugh burst out of Greg’s lips. “No. Sorry. Are you seriously asking me? You get all paranoid-depressive when you’re drunk?”

“Do I?” Mycroft blinked, seeming actually surprised by the idea.

“You must,” Greg said, drawing Mycroft toward him slowly, smiling. “I was laughing because, well, the idea of a Holmes being anything _but_ a mystery...”

“You find me difficult?”

“My God, you do get paranoid.”

“I do not,” Mycroft said, just a trifle too quickly. Then, “Do you?”

“I find you incomprehensible. Baffling. Enigmatic. And I stick around out of fascination.” 

Now, Mycroft’s posture was relaxing, and his head was resting on Greg’s shoulder, his face turned away. “So... if you ever felt that... you understood me...” he said, in the tone of someone poking a body to be sure it was dead.

“Yes. I’d close London down and throw the biggest party the world has ever seen, and I’d get pissed off my arse, and drag you to bed and fuck you like it was going out of style. Because there’d be no more tomorrows, after that.”

“Am I really so difficult?”

Greg stroked his back. “Yeah. And no. It’s like... I can surf the wave without being able to steer it, you know?”

Mycroft made a soft, sighing noise. “I’m not sure that I do.”

“Can you always predict me?”

“Usually, yes.”

Greg nudged him. “Bullshit.”

“Well. Often?”

Greg pursed his lips, then turned and laid them against Mycroft’s neck. “Mm. Okay. From you, that’s probably true.”

“But you know me, Gregory.”

“I do, yeah. You don’t fish for compliments or I’d have punched you up the waistcoat five minutes ago.”

“You wouldn’t be dancing with me if I did,” Mycroft pointed out.

“You’re kind of ruining the moment, making me think, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah. I was joking.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I like that you’re always fourteen miles ahead of the planet. And there’s no chance that I will ever find you...boring. You only know how to fake being dull because it’s just a thing to know, and you know all of the...things there are to know.”

Greg paused to rethink his last sentence, and Mycroft took a breath, and laughed. “I think I must. I understood that.”

“Can I stop now?”

“You may do whatever you like, as ever.”

Greg smiled, then the smile widened. “Can I hum?”


End file.
